“Dat’s all right, Skeeter,” Shin declared, a burden lifted from his heart. “All I wants is a chance to win.”
“I’s gittin’ ready to close up right now, “Skeeter said, as he reached for his hat. “Us’ll mosey out to de track togedder.”
They entered the gate to find the grounds thronged with happy, eager, black faces, shiny with sweat. The band was playing, the peanut roasters were shrieking, and dozens of apron-clad, thunder-voiced negroes waved long-handled forks and howled like a wolf-pack. “Hot—hot—hot-dog!”
“Lawdy,” Shin sighed. “My empty stomick is wrapped aroun’ my backbone like a wet dishrag aroun’ a dryin’-pole. I feel like I ain’t et fer fawty days!”
He promptly separated himself from Skeeter Butts and lost no time in finding Whiffle Boone.
“Is you had somepin to eat sence you got out here, Whiffle?” he asked eagerly.
“I ain’t got nothin’ but a smell of dem hot dogs,” she smiled.
“Dis is whar we chews a few,” Shin declared, as he led her away from the grandstand.
“Whut wus you so snippy about when I met you uptown?” Whiffle inquired as they consumed the sausage which Shin purchased with the money he had begged from the white folks of Tickfall.